Chapter 4
High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled; Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limbs of the beech-tree Burned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flourished. Wild were the children with mirth, and grouping and clinging together, Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed with its humor; Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness, Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children. (Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our first-loves!) Sometimes they tossed on the floor, and sometimes they hid in the corners, Shouting and laughing aloud, and never resting a moment, In the rude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,-- Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick. Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub, Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gambols, By his tawny beard the children caught him, and clambered Over his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them, Made him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him. Airily to and fro, and out of one room to another Passed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the household, Nonchalant, debonair, blithe, with bewitching housewifely importance, Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the kitchen; Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him, Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers together Over his eyes in a girlish caprice, and crying, "Who is it?" Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of children, Calling his sister's children around her, and stilling their clamor, Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent, Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother bent on his visage With the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotion Of the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble, Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him. Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children; Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling, Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her keepsake, Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before them. But, when the night was grown old and the two by the hearthstone together Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricket Carked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the pendule Sighed the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were perished,-- It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were reading. "Read it to-night," she said, "that I may not seem to be going." Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain she had wrought him. From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,-- All his voice molten in secret tears, and ebbing and flowing, Now with a faltering breath, and now with impassioned abandon,-- Read from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered, Fatally met too late, and their love was their guilt and their anguish, But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness, Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love's sake. Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling and fading to silence, Thrilled in the silence they sat, and durst not behold one another, Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning, Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passion With their fate they strove; but out of the pang of the conflict, Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine, Victors they came, and Love retrieved the error of loving. So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future, Guessing the riddle of life, and accepting the cruel solution,-- Side by side they sat, as far as the stars are asunder. Carked the cricket no more, but while the audible silence Shrilled in their ears, she, suddenly rising and dragging the thistle Out of her clinging hair, laughed mockingly, casting it from her: "Perish the thorns and splendor,--the bloom and the sweetness are perished. Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one's Duty,-- These and the world, for dead Love!--The end of these modern romances! Better than yonder rhyme?... Pleasant dreams and good night, Cousin Clement."
BY THE SEA.
I walked with her I love by the sea, The deep came up with its chanting waves, Making a music so great and free That the will and the faith, which were dead in me, Awoke and rose from their graves.
Chanting, and with a regal sweep Of their 'broidered garments up and down The strand, came the mighty waves of the deep, Dragging the wave-worn drift from its sleep Along the sea-sands bare and brown.
"O my soul, make the song of the sea!" I cried. "How it comes, with its stately tread, And its dreadful voice, and the splendid pride Of its regal garments flowing wide Over the land!" to my soul I said.
My soul was still; the deep went down. "What hast thou, my soul," I cried, "In thy song?" "The sea-sands bare and brown, With broken shells and sea-weed strown, And stranded drift," my soul replied.
SAINT CHRISTOPHER.
In the narrow Venetian street, On the wall above the garden gate (Within, the breath of the rose is sweet, And the nightingale sings there, soon and late),
Stands Saint Christopher, carven in stone, With the little child in his huge caress, And the arms of the baby Jesus thrown About his gigantic tenderness;
And over the wall a wandering growth Of darkest and greenest ivy clings, And climbs around them, and holds them both In its netted clasp of knots and rings,
Clothing the saint from foot to beard In glittering leaves that whisper and dance To the child, on his mighty arm upreared, With a lusty summer exuberance.
To the child on his arm the faithful saint Looks up with a broad and tranquil joy; His brows and his heavy beard aslant Under the dimpled chin of the boy,
Who plays with the world upon his palm, And bends his smiling looks divine On the face of the giant mild and calm, And the glittering frolic of the vine.
He smiles on either with equal grace,-- On the simple ivy's unconscious life, And the soul in the giant's lifted face, Strong from the peril of the strife:
For both are his own,--the innocence That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven, And the virtue that gently rises thence Through trial sent and victory given.
Grow, ivy, up to his countenance, But it cannot smile on my life as on thine; Look, Saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance, Where I dare not lift these eyes of mine.
Venice, 1863.
ELEGY ON JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS,
Who died, "with the first song of the birds," Wednesday morning, April 27, 1864.
I.
In the early morning when I wake At the hour that is sacred for his sake,
And hear the happy birds of spring In the garden under my window sing,
And through my window the daybreak blows The sweetness of the lily and rose,
A dormant anguish wakes with day, And my heart is smitten with strange dismay:
Distance wider than thine, O sea, Darkens between my brother and me!
II.
A scrap of print, a few brief lines, The fatal word that swims and shines
On my tears, with a meaning new and dread, Make faltering reason know him dead,
And I would that my heart might feel it too, And unto its own regret be true;
For this is the hardest of all to bear, That his life was so generous and fair,
So full of love, so full of hope, Broadening out with ample scope,
And so far from death, that his dying seems The idle agony of dreams
To my heart, that feels him living yet,-- And I forget, and I forget.
III.
He was almost grown a man when he passed Away, but when I kissed him last
He was still a child, and I had crept Up to the little room where he slept,
And thought to kiss him good-by in his sleep; But he was awake to make me weep
With terrible homesickness, before My wayward feet had passed the door.
Round about me clung his embrace, And he pressed against my face his face,
As if some prescience whispered him then That it never, never should be again.
IV.
Out of far-off days of boyhood dim, When he was a babe and I played with him,
I remember his looks and all his ways; And how he grew through childhood's grace,
To the hopes, and strifes, and sports, and joys, And innocent vanity of boys;
I hear his whistle at the door, His careless step upon the floor,
His song, his jest, his laughter yet,-- And I forget, and I forget.
V.
Somewhere in the graveyard that I know, Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow,
They have laid him; and his sisters set On his grave the flowers their tears have wet;
And above his grave, while I write, the song Of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong
From the leafy dark of the chestnut-tree; And many a murmuring honey-bee
On the strawberry blossoms in the grass Stoops by his grave and will not pass;
And in the little hollow beneath The slope of the silent field of death,
The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet, And the cattle go by with homeward feet,
And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb, At the harmless noises not meant for him;
And Nature, unto her loving heart Has taken our darling's mortal part,
Tenderly, that he may be, Like the song of the robin in the tree,
The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore, A part of Summer evermore.
VI.
I write, and the words with my tears are wet,-- But I forget, O, I forget!
Teach me, Thou that sendest this pain, To know and feel my loss and gain!
Let me not falter in belief On his death, for that is sorest grief:
O, lift me above this wearing strife, Till I discern his deathless life,
Shining beyond this misty shore, A part of Heaven evermore.
Venice, Wednesday Morning, at Dawn, May 16, 1864.
THANKSGIVING.
I.
Lord, for the erring thought Not into evil wrought: Lord, for the wicked will Betrayed and baffled still: For the heart from itself kept, Our thanksgiving accept.
II.
For ignorant hopes that were Broken to our blind prayer: For pain, death, sorrow, sent Unto our chastisement: For all loss of seeming good, Quicken our gratitude.
A SPRINGTIME.
One knows the spring is coming: There are birds; the fields are green; There is balm in the sunlight and moonlight, And dew in the twilights between.
But over there is a silence, A rapture great and dumb, That day when the doubt is ended, And at last the spring is come.
Behold the wonder, O silence! Strange as if wrought in a night,-- The waited and lingering glory, The world-old, fresh delight!
O blossoms that hang like winter, Drifted upon the trees, O birds that sing in the blossoms, O blossom-haunting bees,--
O green, green leaves on the branches, O shadowy dark below, O cool of the aisles of orchards, Woods that the wild flowers know,--
O air of gold and perfume, Wind, breathing sweet and sun, O sky of perfect azure-- Day, Heaven and Earth in one!--
Let me draw near thy secret, And in thy deep heart see How fared, in doubt and dreaming, The spring that is come in me.
For my soul is held in silence, A rapture, great and dumb,-- For the mystery that lingered, The glory that is come!
1861.
IN EARLIEST SPRING.
Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, Lion-like, March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, Through all the moaning chimneys, and thwart all the hollows and angles Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.
But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift.
Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes,-- Rapture of life ineffable, perfect,--as if in the brier, Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.
THE BOBOLINKS ARE SINGING.
Out of its fragrant heart of bloom,-- The bobolinks are singing! Out of its fragrant heart of bloom The apple-tree whispers to the room, "Why art thou but a nest of gloom, While the bobolinks are singing?"
The two wan ghosts of the chamber there,-- The bobolinks are singing! The two wan ghosts of the chamber there Cease in the breath of the honeyed air, Sweep from the room and leave it bare, While the bobolinks are singing.
Then with a breath so chill and slow,-- The bobolinks are singing! Then with a breath so chill and slow, It freezes the blossoms into snow, The haunted room makes answer low, While the bobolinks are singing.
"I know that in the meadow-land,-- The bobolinks are singing! I know that in the meadow-land The sorrowful, slender elm-trees stand, And the brook goes by on the other hand, While the bobolinks are singing.
"But ever I see, in the brawling stream,-- The bobolinks are singing! But ever I see in the brawling stream A maiden drowned and floating dim, Under the water, like a dream, While the bobolinks are singing.
"Buried, she lies in the meadow-land!-- The bobolinks are singing! Buried, she lies in the meadow-land, Under the sorrowful elms where they stand. Wind, blow over her soft and bland, While the bobolinks are singing.
"O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing,-- The bobolinks are singing! O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing The farmer saw so heavily swing From the elm, one merry morn of spring, While the bobolinks were singing.
"O blow, and blow away the bloom,-- The bobolinks are singing! O blow, and blow away the bloom That sickens me in my heart of gloom, That sweetly sickens the haunted room, While the bobolinks are singing!"
PRELUDE.
(TO AN EARLY BOOK OF VERSE.)
In March the earliest bluebird came And caroled from the orchard-tree His little tremulous songs to me, And called upon the summer's name,
And made old summers in my heart All sweet with flower and sun again; So that I said, "O, not in vain Shall be thy lay of little art,
"Though never summer sun may glow, Nor summer flower for thee may bloom; Though winter turn in sudden gloom, And drowse the stirring spring with snow";
And learned to trust, if I should call Upon the sacred name of Song, Though chill through March I languish long, And never feel the May at all,
Yet may I touch, in some who hear, The hearts, wherein old songs asleep Wait but the feeblest touch to leap In music sweet as summer air!
I sing in March brief bluebird lays, And hope a May, and do not know: May be, the heaven is full of snow,-- May be, there open summer days.
THE MOVERS.
SKETCH.
Parting was over at last, and all the good-bys had been spoken. Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly, Bearing the mother and children, while onward before them the father Trudged with his gun on his arm, and the faithful house-dog beside him, Grave and sedate, as if knowing the sorrowful thoughts of his master.
April was in her prime, and the day in its dewy awaking: Like a great flower, afar on the crest of the eastern woodland, Goldenly bloomed the sun, and over the beautiful valley, Dim with its dew and shadow, and bright with its dream of a river, Looked to the western hills, and shone on the humble procession, Paining with splendor the children's eyes, and the heart of the mother.
Beauty, and fragrance, and song filled the air like a palpable presence. Sweet was the smell of the dewy leaves and the flowers in the wild-wood, Fair the long reaches of sun and shade in the aisles of the forest. Glad of the spring, and of love, and of morning, the wild birds were singing: Jays to each other called harshly, then mellowly fluted together; Sang the oriole songs as golden and gay as his plumage; Pensively piped the querulous quails their greetings unfrequent, While, on the meadow elm, the meadow lark gushed forth in music, Rapt, exultant, and shaken with the great joy of his singing; Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the air, the kingfisher Hung, ere he dropped, like a bolt, in the water beneath him; Gossiping, out of the bank flew myriad twittering swallows; And in the boughs of the sycamores quarrelled and clamored the blackbirds.
Never for these things a moment halted the Movers, but onward, Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly. Till, on the summit, that overlooked all the beautiful valley, Trembling and spent, the horses came to a standstill unbidden; Then from the wagon the mother in silence got down with her children, Came, and stood by the father, and rested her hand on his shoulder.
Long together they gazed on the beautiful valley before them; Looked on the well-known fields that stretched away to the woodlands, Where, in the dark lines of green, showed the milk-white crest of the dogwood, Snow of wild-plums in bloom, and crimson tints of the red-bud; Looked on the pasture-fields where the cattle were lazily grazing,-- Soft, and sweet, and thin came the faint, far notes of the cow-bells,-- Looked on the oft-trodden lanes, with their elder and blackberry borders, Looked on the orchard, a bloomy sea, with its billows of blossoms. Fair was the scene, yet suddenly strange and all unfamiliar, As are the faces of friends, when the word of farewell has been spoken. Long together they gazed; then at last on the little log-cabin-- Home for so many years, now home no longer forever-- Rested their tearless eyes in the silent rapture of anguish. Up on the morning air no column of smoke from the chimney Wavering, silver and azure, rose, fading and brightening ever; Shut was the door where yesterday morning the children were playing; Lit with a gleam of the sun the window stared up at them blindly. Cold was the hearthstone now, and the place was forsaken and empty. Empty? Ah no! but haunted by thronging and tenderest fancies, Sad recollections of all that had been, of sorrow or gladness.
Still they sat there in the glow of the wide red fire in the winter, Still they sat there by the door in the cool of the still summer evening, Still the mother seemed to be singing her babe there to slumber, Still the father beheld her weep o'er the child that was dying, Still the place was haunted by all the Past's sorrow and gladness!
Neither of them might speak for the thoughts that came crowding their hearts so, Till, in their ignorant trouble aloud the children lamented; Then was the spell of silence dissolved, and the father and mother Burst into tears and embraced, and turned their dim eyes to the Westward.
Ohio, 1859.
THROUGH THE MEADOW.
The summer sun was soft and bland, As they went through the meadow land.
The little wind that hardly shook The silver of the sleeping brook Blew the gold hair about her eyes,-- A mystery of mysteries! So he must often pause, and stoop, And all the wanton ringlets loop Behind her dainty ear--emprise Of slow event and many sighs.
Across the stream was scarce a step,-- And yet she feared to try the leap; And he, to still her sweet alarm, Must lift her over on his arm.
She could not keep the narrow way, For still the little feet would stray, And ever must he bend t' undo The tangled grasses from her shoe,-- From dainty rosebud lips in pout, Must kiss the perfect flowér out!
Ah! little coquette! Fair deceit! Some things are bitter that were sweet.
GONE.
Is it the shrewd October wind Brings the tears into her eyes? Does it blow so strong that she must fetch Her breath in sudden sighs?
The sound of his horse's feet grows faint, The Rider has passed from sight; The day dies out of the crimson west, And coldly falls the night.
She presses her tremulous fingers tight Against her closéd eyes, And on the lonesome threshold there, She cowers down and cries.
THE SARCASTIC FAIR.
Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee, that stings.
RAPTURE.
In my rhyme I fable anguish, Feigning that my love is dead, Playing at a game of sadness, Singing hope forever fled,--
Trailing the slow robes of mourning, Grieving with the player's art, With the languid palms of sorrow Folded on a dancing heart.
I must mix my love with death-dust, Lest the draught should make me mad; I must make believe at sorrow, Lest I perish, over-glad.
DEAD.
I.
Something lies in the room Over against my own; The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom Of candles, burning alone,-- Untrimmed, and all aflare In the ghastly silence there!
II.
People go by the door, Tiptoe, holding their breath, And hush the talk that they held before, Lest they should waken Death, That is awake all night There in the candlelight!
III.
The cat upon the stairs Watches with flamy eye For the sleepy one who shall unawares Let her go stealing by. She softly, softly purrs, And claws at the banisters.
IV.
The bird from out its dream Breaks with a sudden song, That stabs the sense like a sudden scream; The hound the whole night long Howls to the moonless sky, So far, and starry, and high.
THE DOUBT.
She sits beside the low window, In the pleasant evening-time, With her face turned to the sunset, Reading a book of rhyme.
And the wine-light of the sunset, Stolen into the dainty nook, Where she sits in her sacred beauty, Lies crimson on the book.
O beautiful eyes so tender, Brown eyes so tender and dear, Did you leave your reading a moment Just now, as I passed near?
Maybe, 'tis the sunset flushes Her features, so lily-pale; Maybe, 'tis the lover's passion, She reads of in the tale.
O darling, and darling, and darling, If I dared to trust my thought; If I dared to believe what I must not, Believe what no one ought,--
We would read together the poem Of the Love that never died, The passionate, world-old story Come true, and glorified.
THE THORN.
"Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, But this has none, I know." She clasped my rival's Rose Over her breast of snow.
I bowed to hide my pain, With a man's unskilful art; I moved my lips, and could not say The Thorn was in my heart!
THE MYSTERIES.
Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, Holding my breath; There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept At the dark mystery of Death.
Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, Spent with the strife,-- O mother, let me weep upon thy breast At the sad mystery of Life!
THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS.
"The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and much of General Hooker's battle was fought above the clouds, on the top of Lookout Mountain."--GENERAL MEIG'S _Report of the Battle before Chattanooga_.